Dion
AlteredTundra
King had broken away from the others long ago, for drinks and gossip. Crowds upon crowds of girls and boys alike welcomed him into their small circles, chatting loudly above the pumping bass about teacher scandals and slutty coworkers and addicted classmates. King listened to each comment with a cocky smile and a sip of beer, going through the motions he usually did: furrow your brow at certain names, smile and flirt at a sensual stare, lean back and laugh at a nicely timed joke. Party talk, party talk, party talk. By the time King was on his fifth group his fourth bottle of beer was empty and his eyes bleared when he glared across the room for people worth talking to.
And then he saw him, the pretty boy hiding against a wall. Seen only by the flicking lights above and looking hopelessly alone, though King assumed he was anything but.
Needless to say, the sight alone was enough for King to bid adieu to the shouting group around him and stalk over, pretending to know what he was doing and failing slightly because a drunk King was an impulsive and clumsy King. It took a second longer to reach the familiar-looking-stranger, because he stopped for a refill and to share some kind words to some nice looking legs, but then he too was growing further from the lights and groping hands.
Once he was in earshot, King said, “You’re looking pretty lonely over here, dude.” A cocky smile appeared as he took a sudden sip from his bottle, “Need some company?”
“Depends on the kind up for grabs,” Malcolm Okada replied, eyes glancing over from the large windows to the figure intruding on his solitude (if it could even be called that). Blonde hair, tall, pretty to look at and dangerous, if he was to stare for a long period of time. He leaned back, shoulders pressed heavily against the wall, and rubbed at the back of his neck.
And sipped on his own drink, of course, in a way that hopefully made it seem like he wasn’t going to down it without a moment’s notice as he usually did. King did the same again, smile only growing in brilliance. He moved forward slowly, hesitantly, and then pressed his back against the wall besides Malcolm. His voice was a low purr this time, flirty and soothing,
“Hope you don’t mind me hanging around, then.” His head tilted back, pressing high against the wall as he knocked back the rest of his drink and stifled a sigh. “The name’s Richard, by the way. Richard King. But you can call me whatever you want.” His eyes fell away from the New York lights to stare at the man beside him, and instantly they filled with some odd hunger he couldn’t quite hide.
“I don’t–no, I don’t mind.” A contemplative hum concealed what was almost a stutter until a wicked grin quirked at the corner of Mal’s usually-stoic lips. “Are you sure you wanna leave that offer open, sport?” He hooked a thumb around his suspenders, and raised an eyebrow at King. “It’s Malcolm.”
King stifled a snort, turning to lean on his shoulder because for some reason this ‘Malcolm’ was endlessly fascinating under the dim lights and screaming music. “Malcolm? Yeah, sure. I adore stupid nicknames like that.” His grin widened, revealing his jest at the otherwise mean-spirit comment, and he leaned in closer to get a good look at Mal’s own sly smirk. King stared a moment longer than he should have, however, and eventually turned back to eye the party beyond their little moment.
It all suddenly felt so much less interesting, compared to the lean man beside him at least. King turned his attention back to Malcolm and hummed, eyebrows furrowing with curiosity. “So, Malcolm, what brings you to what people are calling ‘the hottest party of the year’?”
“Tagged along to watch people get drunk and make fools out of themselves. See also: getting drunk myself,” Mal said, turning his body ever so slightly in King’s direction. One of the long strands of hair that fell down to frame his forehead was quickly wrapped around the finger of his free-hand. “Also, because you can’t call it the hottest party of the year without me here. Obviously.”
He rolled his eyes, and drank some more before he could make a further fool of himself. “How ‘bout you?”
King took another long sip, eyebrows hitching humorously at Mal’s comment. He tried not to make a sexual advance at the given chance, instead he pressed back against the wall and chuckled darkly at the next question. “I guess I came because I was supposed to. As an art school student, it is my duty to attend every single penthouse party available to me, no matter the crowd or consequences!” He gave a dynamic pose, as if his words held more of a heroic meaning than they actually did. And then King settled back against wall again and sighed, smile softening somewhat as he confessed, “Also I thought a party would be a good thing to kill the pre-class jitters I had for some reason. Ya know, take my mind off of useless stuff.”
King’s classes were obviously the least of his worries, though a complete stranger shouldn’t be able to tell that from his confident shoulders and arched brow. His mind turned briefly to his home life and all the drama happening there. To his sister who was hopefully out of that house now. To the mail that probably held a few court callings, if that was how they wishes to operate after everything was discovered. His eyes drifted back to Malcolm, narrowed to glittering slits in the dimness of the party.
“Wanna help? You look like you could be a very pretty distraction.”
Malcolm’s fingers brushed against King’s shoulder, and he narrowed his eyes to focus through the slight haze that had descended over his lightweight of a mind. He met King’s gaze and kept it, tilting his chin up before a wicked smirk crossed his face. “I don’t sleep around – not for one or two cunning lines. Sorry, buddy.”
Pearly white teeth flashed into an open smile for only a moment. “Maybe at the next party.”
King shrugged, keeping Malcolm’s gaze with his cockiest expression yet, “It was worth a shot, hmm?” He knocked back the rest of his drink quickly, feeling only slightly sour at being turned down. He could have been a lot worse, a lot more persistent, but at the same time his mind felt slowed with alcohol and his eyes were drawn to Mal’s face rather than his… Other features.
No use trying to get laid if he wasn’t in the mood himself, yeah?
“Never mind that-- what’re you in for? I’m assuming you’re another Mortimer student, and if I’m assuming right I would love to know your major.” King pressed his shoulder against the wall, holding his empty bottle between himself and the pretty stranger as he let another smile meet his lips.
“Guess.”
“Eh-- ah,” King pursed his lips, leaning his head back in thought. And then he focused in on Malcolm again. He looked at him, staring up and down not in a sensual sense anymore but instead a thoughtful one. King liked to think, as an liberal arts student, he was a pro at telling other liberal arts students apart. And the kid in front of him, well, he had the hands of a musician.
“You in the music program? Maybe?” King froze for a moment, head lowering as he tapped a finger to his chin, “I haven’t seen you around so probably not actually. Uh--” He pressed his free hand to Mal’s shoulder, squeezing, feeling the muscle, and then he stepped back with the snap of a finger, “You’re a theater major!”
“I really look like the type to be up there singing Summer Lovin’, don’t I?” Mal said with an easy grin to counteract his usual, bitterly cold sarcasm. “But, no. Not even close, sport, but good try. Hell, I might guess myself to be a theatre major–wait, no, what am I saying? I should stop, I’m a menace to my own social image.”
Mal chuckled quietly. “I’m more the Dirty Dancing-type.”
“You look like you could play a mean Danny Zuko, though.” King said with a goofy look on his face, feeling a bit lighthearted at the fact that his current person-of-interest easily dropped a reference to one of his favorite movies, “Dirty Dancing? Oh, oh you’re a dance major. That was my second guess.” He leaned forward again, tapping his foot to the beat of some echoey, bass-ridden song that had began pumping through the many many speakers laying around the penthouse.
King glanced down at his empty bottle, and then leaned it forward to clink against Mal’s. His eyes twisted towards the nearest source of alcohol, and then the surprisingly empty couch in the corner, pressed against the very windows both had found themselves staring out of. “Wanna load up and roll out? I’m pretty sure standing here all night is gonna wear at least one of us down.” Oh, King barely realized he had planned to stick close to the stranger for the rest of the night, but then again the rest of the party didn’t seem as intense as this man’s wicked smile.
“I’ll grade you based on effort,” Mal agreed cheekily. His fingers brushed down King’s arm, past the sleeves on his shirt and down to his wrist as he leaned in to whisper, “I’m a ballet dancer, by the way.” And with that, and without relinquishing his faint grip on the other man, he led them through the sparse crowds on their side of the room to the couch.
Mal twisted around so that even though he was in the middle of it, he was exclusively facing King, because really, his inhibitions were low enough now for his icy front to melt and his desperate self to shine through.
King followed after him after grabbing another beer and shooting an acquaintance an excited smile. Even if he had done something like this a thousand times, talked to someone, flirted with someone, advanced on someone, for some reason he still felt like a serious rookie. His face was warm, either from intoxication or an affliction most would call lust, and his heart thudded painfully as he collapsed next to Malcolm and slung his free arm over the back of the couch.
Cool glass met his nude wrist, and he sighed slightly as it seemed to cool some part of his, enough for him to speak confidently, “Ballet, huh? Shit-- I’ve seen some shows with my mom before. It’s er, pretty amazing.” He turned towards Mal and shrugged, “Those leaps and shit can’t be real, it’s like all those dancers were floating or something. Must take some hard core training, hmm?” King rambled a bit, slurring words already as he knocked back his sixth bottle with three hurried sips.
What else could he do, really? He was thirsty dammit.
“You’re secretly wanting to know if I do all those crazy, bend-over-backwards stretches, yeah?” Mal said, and he leaned in to the back of the couch, either ignoring or indifferent to the fact that King’s arm was outstretched behind him, and that his hand curled in just past his shoulder.
He laughed again. Stop laughing, he told himself.
“Well, yeah–I’m glad I picked ballet rather than, like, saxophone. Gotta keep flexible, you know?”
King nodded, lips still pressed to his empty bottle as if the disguise the fact that he was growing red and slurry. Eventually, he leaned back further into the couch and cocked his head, “Flexible, hmm?” A devious smile lit his face, which had become shadowed and haggard from the spinning lights in the center of the room, “Do all those stretches help you out in the bedroom at all?” He switched his bottle to his empty hand, pressing it against the back of the couch and stifling a snort as he eyed Mal’s face.
Mal pressed his lips to the rim of his own bottle, smiling enigmatically. “Isn’t that a personal question?”
“Probably, but I’m just drunk enough to not care what’s personal and what’s not.” King’s eyebrows rose humorously, though he felt a bit high strung. A bit left out of the loop, despite there being only himself and Malcolm in it. That odd smile of his was especially annoying, so much so that King couldn’t help but focus in on it with bleary eyes.
And then he turned back to the party. The dance floor, filled with the competent people who actually knew how to dance. His mind turned to dancing, ballet, hip hop, and then rounded all the way around to music. Jazz. Offhandedly, King said, “So, do you do anything other than ballet? You mentioned sax… Did you used to play or something?”
“Just in high school,” Mal answered – and he couldn’t help but falter, perhaps showing his inexperience with this whole game of flirting and playing hard to get (intentional or not), as he tried to work out how to continue the conversation.
“So what about you, hot-shot? What’s your special talent? Other than making boys like me blush, that is.”
“Ah-- Music. Guitar-playing, uh, jazz. I’m studying to be a jazz guitarist.” King smiled suddenly, feeling a bit freer at being able to share his major with someone new, “I’ve got those fancy fingers, ya feel?” He leaned towards Mal and shifted his weight around, strumming on an air guitar in a nonsensical fashion while laughing high above the speakers again. And when his hands fell down to his lap again he gave no effort to move away, instead pressing comfortable into Mal’s shoulder as he bent his head back and smirked.
“Other talents include singing, juggling, and drinking myself silly. The ‘making boys blush’ talent is sort of an extension, gotta pay extra to see it action~.” He stopped himself, eyes falling in thought, and then purred, “But -- as you can already see -- it’s free for people as pretty as you.”
Dryly, Mal replied, “I knew there were perks to looking this good.” His dark gaze slipped away skittishly towards the dance floor he had no interest in, for once (because the music was beyond trashy) before returning to fix upon King’s collarbone. “But–yeah, guitar. Wow, uh. Callouses–yeah, I can dig that.”
He shot a desperate, wounded glance for King to continue speaking so that he could proceed to take his foot out of his mouth. King returned it with another brilliant smile and leaned further against Mal’s shoulder, trying to ignore the heat they shared as his thigh pressed against the other boy’s.
“Callouses are hot? I don't think I've heard anyway say that before.” He lifted his hand for inspection, observing the hardened finger tips and crackled skin. King offered the sight to Malcolm, holding out his palm almost innocently, “Are they as sexy as you envisioned?”
“D–Depends how they feel.”
King leaned forward and chuckled, darkly. His hand fell away, trailing over Malcolm’s side to slip up under his shirt. His fingertips pressed against the other’s lower back, sensual and shaky with drunkenness and unfiltered attraction. King pressed forward even further until he was certain Mal was only able to look at him, keep his bleary gaze, and his laugh came out smaller this time. Why does my heart hurt?
…
probaby the alcohol
“Well,” he began, cocking his head, “How do they feel?”
Mal wasn’t drunk enough.
“Aren’t you forward?” he asked coyly.
Or maybe he was.
“I’m–uh, reconsidering my stance on drunken hookups,” he stuttered out, because it wasn’t fair to have a hand just sitting there, doing nothing but being an absolute reminder that the guitarist–jazz guitarist–was hot as hell and cocky to boot. “There’s your answer.” There was very little blood in his brain right now, Mal was sure, as he licked his lower lip.
“No hookups, though.” The reaffirmation was clear, because Jenn would probably laugh at him and he’d regret it in the morning beyond all doubt. “Though, we could always make out–?” Mal cursed his grin for being so… eager.
“Make out? Make out, yeah– yeah! Let's make out.” King grinned wildly, brilliantly, and leaned even closer. His brain was vibrant with excitement, edged on by alcohol and lust and complete appreciation for the beautiful face before him. Foreheads met, blonde hair on black, and King’s smile weakened to a gentle smirk, and he tilted his head forward. Lips brushed against lips.
Kiss him.
King stalled and stared, eyes wide and red with sleeplessness and party high, and though he could very easily break his own motto and kiss this boy without so much as a word of warning he didn't. Instead, he growled, “May I?”
Mal kissed him instead, one hand slipping up to King’s jaw to hold him in place for the six, seven seconds of steam that was a brief (almost, almost shy) before he backed off ever so slightly – far enough away from skin-to-skin contact but with faces close enough for their breath to mingle in the ultraviolet air. “Stole it.”
King’s hand was still on his back. And it would remain as King pressed Malcolm against his chest and dragged his lips against the other boy’s. The first kiss had been gentle and a bit held back, given to him by someone who definitely didn't want a lay, but the next kiss was designed to change that mindset. He straightened his back and locked his mouth against Malcolm’s, tongue loose and dragging across the boy’s lower lip. King’s free hand rose to card through Malcolm’s hair, gentle and clammy with an unneeded anxiety, and he kissed and kissed until he was breathless and panting against Malcolm’s lips.
Even then he didn't break away, however. Something wanted him to stay close to this boy, share the same heat as him, and if a drunken make out in the corner of some party would award him with what he desired then dammit he's going to ride the whole thing out.
